


Dominant and Tonic

by Dussek



Category: Classical Music RPF
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dussek/pseuds/Dussek
Summary: 1787. Ludwig van Beethoven travels to Vienna for several weeks. Mozart is too busy with his upcoming production of Don Giovanni to take on another student, and Beethoven leaves on hearing news of his mother's illness.What if Beethoven had left a month or so earlier? What if Mozart had taken him on - as a student, as a copyist, as a friend? As something more?





	1. The Audition

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will eventually be rated M. I've tried to ground the story as much as possible in the history, but I am fudging several dates to make this work.
> 
> With many, many thanks to E for her patient beta reading and encouragement over the years.

Ludwig van Beethoven is fairly sure by this point that everything he’s played has been a mistake. Not a mistake in the notes, no; the notes had been flawless. More, he’d played with the smoothness of a true fortepianist, throughout the sixteenth notes of the [prelude. The fugue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VAEhX4lQLNg) had been more difficult, as it always was, but each entrance, on dominant and on tonic, throughout all the voices, had rung out, filling the space with the old music. To the little audience, the few people that were there, it’d probably seemed excellent.

The problem was that he was playing it for an even more extraordinary man. Or, rather, that the man is unimpressed, or skeptical, or doubtful, or _something,_ other than impressed or pleased or anything that would indicate that he hadn’t traveled 500 miles to fail. When he finishes, the last major chord like sunlight after rain, and lets his leg down off the fortepiano’s pedal at last, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart applauds lightly, and he can tell it’s out of politeness.

Others are more generous. A dark-haired woman standing in the door-frame is the first to join in the applause. Following her lead, the few listeners hanging around also applaud, shift in their seats, the chatter they’d kept at a quiet buzz growing in volume. Approving words float around the room.

He’s not sure if his legs will support him anymore, so he gives a half-bow from the fortepiano bench and a practiced smile. He’s not here for them.

Mozart rises from the pulled-up chair, standing at the fortepiano as his guests begin to shuffle around, taking their leave of this unexpected concert. One or two of them congratulate him, in a nasal Viennese accent he’s already tired of hearing. They don’t use his name, because they can’t remember it.

There’s a twisting feeling inside of him, and amid all the strange discomforts of being far from home at least he can take comfort in this one, familiar and hateful though it is. Ludwig closes his eyes for a second, forces the feeling back down. He’s done this over and over, practiced it like scales, but it still feels like a bruise. Like a crack in glass composure. When he opens his eyes again, the room’s almost entirely clear, but for Mozart and the woman who started the applause. She comes up, to Mozart’s side, and he puts his arm around her.

“That was excellent, Herr Beethoven,” she says, after a few seconds have passed without Mozart saying anything. Ludwig rises again and makes a bow, almost knocking the bench backwards in the process.

“Thank you, Madame…” he risks a glance to the composer “Mozart?”

“Constanze, please.” She smiles at him, a genuine smile that warms him a little. Mozart starts, and finally looks him in the face; he gets the impression, somehow, that Constanze had just prodded him in the ribs.

“Yes, this is my wife.” He turns to her. “My darling, a moment, please?”

She whispers something in his ear, still smiling, then exits the drawing room, closing the door behind her. Ludwig feels the temperature in the room drop a few degrees. He waits for a few heartbeats, looking up at the composer from his seat.

One side of Mozart’s mouth twitches, like he’s just tasted a soup with too much salt.

“A very good performance,” Mozart says, in a flat voice, eyes running away from Ludwig to skim over the fortepiano’s strings. “You have promise, but I’m afraid that I’m really quite busy at the moment.” He shrugs. “Most students can play a prepared piece well. Lots of polish over time adds up.”

_That’s it?_

Ludwig carefully controls the tone of his voice. “Then perhaps you’d like to hear me improvise.”

Mozart looks at him again, eyes narrowed. His voice sharpens. “No, I don’t think it’ll be necessary to hear another _prepared_ -“

“On a theme of your choosing,” Ludwig interrupts, cutting the composer off.

He knows what Mozart is expecting. He’s seen it done himself. An offer to improvise, followed by a wonderful fantasia that pleases and astonishes. A fantasia that’s been composed, practiced, and memorized ahead of time. Most keyboard players don’t dare risk their reputation on real improvisation.

Mozart looks him up and down again for a few seconds, and then a short, sharp exhale.

“All right,” he said shortly, and digs in his pockets, coming up with a loose sheet of staff paper, creased and folded. There’s scribbles all along the edges, a doodle of a cat pawing at the treble clef, and Italian words scrawled under a melody line. _[Batti, batti…](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFF_WZUFAak)_

Ludwig looks steadily at the music, giving himself a few moments. He’s been improvising for years - evenings filled with laughter at the von Breuning household, musical portraits of friends and family, variations on the latest opera arias. He breaths in, a long slow breath, and starts examining the melody. _F major, half cadence here, full cadence there, 4 phrases. High-lying, longer, mostly moves in a descending scale._ More pieces of information tumbled into his head, one after another, from scanning the music - _this part here a melodic fragment I could work with, a descant wouldn’t be a bad idea after a few variations_ \- and he smiles, and brought his hands back to the keyboard. _A light introduction, subdivided into triplets, perhaps, and stay in F major for the first variation at least._

He glances over at the composer before he begins. Just a quick look. It’s a mistake. Mozart’s not looking at him - he’s staring off into the distance again.

Everything he’s just considered is burnt away in the flash of anger that tightens his jaw, tenses his hands. _He’s not even_ looking _at me_ \- and the first chord to break the silence is a heavy, full, powerful C minor. He feels his hands sink into the keyboard. Behind him, a slight, startled breath. Mozart leans forward a little - looking for his theme?

 _I’ll show him his theme_ , runs through his head, and, not bothering with a smile anymore, he gives in to the frustration and annoyance, the uncertainty and the wishing. He is _off_ , running arpeggios across the keys like he is carving his own groove into the piano, _here I am_ , while the theme Mozart’s given him resounds in the bass, transformed to minor. No descant, no lighthearted melody; this is a storm, in his favorite key. He’s focused on the black and white, mind racing ahead, as the music unfurls before him, and even through his focus he can feel Mozart’s shock like a recoil. _Yes, he’s paying attention now._

When Ludwig’s improvised in the past, he’s almost always lost himself in the music, ignored the outside world. This time is different; the frustration, the anxiety, the _fear_ keep him very much in the room, but that last thought keeps on coming back, a refrain. _He’s paying attention._

The anger’s already been diffused through the poor keys, which have taken a pounding; as he grows calmer, he sighs, and lets the thundering bass arpeggios flicker up, down, and rise up the piano, moving into a restless F minor. He lets his left hand break from the theme while he thinks of what to do. The anger he’s been left with is almost gone now - and as it fades, he acknowledges that the original theme really doesn’t deserve the treatment he’s put it through. He shifts his right hand, letting the melody sing out as the top note of the downward arpeggios. Now it’s in the same register as the original melody at least, where a soprano voice might sing it out.

He reaches the end of the melody and started in on another variation, shifting to rippling triplets, and bites at the inside of his lip. The theme should have been set out in the bright F major Mozart had written it in. The problem was that he’d started in _C minor._ Every theme and variation he’s ever heard ended in the same key they’d started in - there were major variations of minor themes, yes, but that was one variation, not half a piece. The smart thing to do would be to end in C minor. The musically correct thing to do, the thing that would match up with the accepted style, the world’s greatest master of which is leaning over his shoulder.

Ludwig’s never been good at taking the smart, easy option. He’s traveled all the way here. He’s played for a genius who wasn’t interested, but he’s played his _best_.

He plays softer, letting the melody fade out until his improvisation is a ripple of the C minor arpeggio, up and down the piano, a whisper, hardly breathing, feeling the energy in the room, feeling Mozart lean in, feeling the composer’s focus.

E-flat to E natural, and then Ludwig adds the B flat dominant. Two notes of difference, and the intense tension of dominant fills the room, crackling-

And he resolves to F major, punctuating the cheeky theme with triumphant rolled chords. _There’s no going back now._ The thought sets off a lighthearted feeling in him, and he punctuates the theme with little arpeggios up the keyboard in the spaces a singer might breathe. Loud, then soft, with arching delicate scales as a descant, then loud again for the finale - he brings back the tall chords he started improvising with, now in major, and uses them to end the piece. He’s tempted to end quietly, he’s made his point, but he can’t resist throwing in one last arpeggio up the keyboard, letting his hand bounce up from the top F.

And done.

It occurs to him, as the last notes fade, that he’s probably thrown away any hope of studying under the greatest composer that’s ever lived.

This time he rises from the fortepiano, and no, his legs are not shaking under him - well, maybe only a little, so he keeps a hand on the fortepiano casually. Casually, and perhaps Mozart won’t notice the slight tremor in his hand. He remembers the bright music and its echo, and tells his insides to settle down firmly, and looks at Mozart, raising an eyebrow with a silent question, or hope, or challenge. God only knows which one it is. He doesn’t.

Mozart is staring at him, and Ludwig thinks that maybe that’s the slightest hint of a smile on his face, and then he starts applauding lightly.

“Well played.”

Ludwig searches his face for any hint of the dismissiveness he’d seen before. He thinks he can’t see any - it’s hard to tell.

“Thank you, Herr Mozart,” and maybe it’s a little stiff, but a part of him is saying _I don’t care anymore_ , while the rest of him knows that that is very much a lie. He’s about to say thank you for your time, and bow, and turn his back on the greatest composer who doesn’t care, when the man turns his back on _him_ and walks straight out of the room.

_What on Earth?_

Mozart is gone for perhaps a minute. Ludwig hears his muffled voice, then Constanze replying. Then the composer is back, and Ludwig opens his mouth - not quite sure what he’s going to say - only for the other man to start shuffling through the shelf that stands next to the door.

He stares at the back of Mozart’s blue jacket. Little embroidery threads catch the light from across the room. The man rifles through some stacks of paper and books.

Ludwig thinks that he might be done with anger today. Instead, he suddenly is aware of just how alone he is, standing in the room with a man who doesn’t seem to acknowledge his presence except when he’s pouring himself into the piano, 500 miles away from home.

He’d prefer the anger. Feeling the stiff dress cravat about his neck, he swallows. Remembers his mother packing it into the suitcase.

 _Now, Ludwig, remember to check how well you’ve tied it before you go to him_.

Had he? Mozart is still rummaging around in the papers. He raises a hand to his cravat. For an absurd moment, thinks that maybe that’s why this irritating man refuses to look him in the eye for more than a few seconds. Shakes the thought off.

 _And please,_ his mother’s eyes were dark brown, and the wrinkles around them seemed to have grown deeper, and her hands had shaken slightly from the cough she was still recovering from as she’d handed him the little suitcase. _Behave yourself, won’t you?_

Well, he _definitely_ hasn’t done that.

He doesn’t know what they’d expected at home. That Mozart would embrace him with open arms? That this strange city would have welcomed him immediately? That at least he would be given some kind of answer, instead of being ignored?

He lifts his head higher. “Shall I see myself out, sir?”

It comes out more pointed than he intended. Better to be pointed than pleading, though.

Mozart turns around. Ludwig rests his hand on the fortepiano, holds his head high, meets his eyes. The composer looks at him - or is it through him-? for a few seconds, and his eyes narrow. He puts down the sheets of paper he’s collected, and picks up a bound book.

“I’ll take you on as a student,” Mozart says, strolling over and handing him the thick sheaf of paper, “if you can play this for me to my satisfaction two weeks from now.” He pauses for a moment. “That is, if you still wish to study with me. Look it over, see what you think.”

The sheaf seems impossibly thick. He glances up at the composer, then back to the music in his hands. _Fantasia and Sonata in C Minor, by Wolfgang Amadé Mozart._

_Behave yourself._

Like that was ever going to happen.

“I’ll do it,” Ludwig says, lifting his head higher. This is a _challenge._

“You haven’t even looked at the music,” Mozart says, as Ludwig turns to leave. He glances back, at the composer standing straight before the fortepiano, blue eyes looking keenly at him, eyebrows raised.

All the anger, all the adrenaline, all the isolation has combined, settling itself into a steely determination. He’s practiced nearly every day of his life that he could remember, past midnight, to when the morning bells would ring out over Bonn, for the chance to come here to Vienna, to live in the center of the music world, to study with this man who’s just _dismissed_ him.

“I’ll do it,” Ludwig repeats, and walks out.


	2. The Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the additional tag, which I forgot to add when uploading.

Once Ludwig gets back to his rented garret, he discovers that the illustrious Herr Mozart has handed him an impossible task.

There’s nothing in the music itself he can’t handle. There’s just so _much_ of it. The bundle of paper Mozart had handed him - his Opus 11, a Fantasia and Sonata in c minor - would have taken him two months or more to learn at home. Twenty-two pages. Two weeks to learn everything.

Before he could get to the work, a few preliminaries. For instance, finding a piano.

His stipend from the Elector back home and his small amount of savings wouldn’t keep him for long in this town - Good God, everything was _expensive -_ but his friends at home had given him a few contacts to call on. A trip further into town to see a nobleman, a little playing and improvising for his ill wife, and Ludwig walks away with assurances of his being welcome at Count Waldstein’s cousin’s palace, a borrowed fortepiano, and a sullen footman to get it up four flights of stairs with him. Then the real work begins: practicing from the bells at morning until his candles run dangerously low and his eyes ache from the effort of reading the music in the early winter nights, pausing only for quick walks through the city streets when restlessness overwhelms him and blessedly cheap meals.

Of course, the music is extraordinary. Ludwig finds himself singing it under his breath even away from the piano, as he strides through the streets of Vienna, hands buried in his fraying coat pockets and the winter wind nipping at his cheeks, until the notes seem to etch themselves into his hands and mind. But it’s like nothing he’s ever heard of the famous composer’s work.

From what he remembers of Mozart’s compositions, they’ve all been _gallant_ style pieces - light and beautiful, meant for entertainment, but with unexpected twists and turns that are Mozart’s trademarks, unexpected sequences and flourishes and melodies that come out of nowhere. The Court orchestra had played a few of his symphonies, the wind players swore by his serenade, and the singers of the theatre always went on and on about the latest arias that flowed from the prolific author’s pen. At its heart, all of the Mozart pieces he’s ever heard have been _songs._

The Fantasia and Sonata, on the other hand… it was as if that sunny, melodious composer had been choked, or turned away in a private grief. There were melodies, but they splintered and fell apart just as often as they came to a traditional ending. The only other composer he can think of that is this original is old Emanuel Bach from Hamburg, the man who’d literally written the book on keyboard playing, and the one Fantasia he’d looked at - well, he’d played the first few measures before his father had ripped it off the keyboard, saying it wasn’t music.

He reads the book through on the first day, stopping and starting, so slowly it hurts, then focuses on the Sonata. The second movement first, because the page is positively covered in ink, and it looks like it’ll be difficult to count out the proper rhythms. To his surprise, it seems to fall into his hands naturally; it’s graceful, with a dignified, ethereal sort of charm and an improvisationary character. It takes only the greater part of two days to learn, focusing only on learning the music, and Ludwig moves on to the third movement of the Sonata with a new determination and confidence.

The first part of the third movement rondo seems normal enough, once he gets it into his hands, but the last two pages splinter apart into brief fragments broken by rests that don’t seem to make _sense._ It reminds him of how it felt to write his first few pieces, trying to play them on the piano, stopping and starting fitfully, of wanting to say something but being physically unable to.

Maybe it’s the music itself, but panic is beginning to creep into his practice. He works harder, longer, with less pauses. He’d planned to call on those contacts he’d been given in this city, but the determination in his chest spurs him on. He doubles down, begs off dinner at the Count’s, works at the movement continuously through the weekend, and concludes that whether or not Mozart meant it, what he’s going to get in a week is something like a sort of _collapse,_ a breakdown of the musical structure itself.

Learning the first movement is a blur. It’s terse and dramatic music, punctuated by the furious trading of voices, bookended by the ripple to bass silence. He’s grateful for the endless hours of scale and arpeggio practice back home, since it allows him to play the movement after two long days. After he plays the rippling coda to bass silence, he celebrates by taking a minute to stretch his aching back and shoulders, then starts in on the fantasia.

It’s harder to learn than the sonata. It’s mercurial, mystifying, like nothing Ludwig’s ever heard before, and it’s absolutely, stunningly beautiful. All of the moodiness of C minor put through its paces: the beginning mystifying and breathless, some parts lyrical, some parts tempestuous, and the end plaintive - except for the very last measure, an electrifying, breathless scale up three octaves to end on a grim and abrupt chord.

When the day comes, he’s barely spoken to anyone in two weeks, his wrists and back ache with soreness, and he takes to the streets to walk to Mozart’s house with a fierce, defiant pride in his heart. He’s met the challenge head on.

—

When he arrives in the little courtyard off St. Stephen’s cathedral, it’s considerably more crowded than before. Two ladies and a gentleman brush past him, laughing loudly. Constanze Mozart, leaning over the little railing outside the apartment, waves them off, then spots him and breaks out into a genuine smile. “Hallo, Ludwig!”

A little startled by the warm welcome, Ludwig practically jogs up the stairs, clutching the sheaves of paper he’s spent so much time on to his chest. He makes his bow at the top of the steps. “Frau Mozart.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again.” She frowns for a second, draws him in closer. “When Wolfgang told me what he asked of you - well. Don’t worry, I’ve been working on him.”

Ludwig nods, mystified as to what she’s referring to.

“Besides, with the way you played that fugue - incredible. I wanted him to take you on right then and there,” she says, taking his arm and leading him inside. “Have you studied much Bach?”

“Most of the Well-Tempered Clavier,” Ludwig responds. There’s something about her easy chatter that puts him at greater ease.

“Remind me to introduce you to the Baron van Swieten - he’s a real connoisseur of old music, and I’m sure he’d love to hear your playing if you’re staying on in Vienna.”

And _that’s_ quite the dash of cold water. He’s only staying on in Vienna if he can study with Mozart, which seems doubtful, despite Constanze's reassurances. Ludwig smiles, just a little thinly, and thanks her as they walk into the living room.

Mozart is sitting in the windowsill, eyes closed, shoes off, violin tucked under his chin and left hand flying in rapid, virtuosic scale passages - but with no bow in his hand, no sound coming from the instrument. Ludwig stands and stares; Constanze waits a few seconds until Mozart’s hand stills for a second, then coughs.

The composer opens his eyes, eyebrows rising a quirk as he sees Ludwig. Constanze pats him on the back, then disappears through a door, and he’s left alone with Mozart for the second time.

“So, you’re back.” There’s a little smile at the corner of Mozart’s mouth.

Ludwig frowns a little. Had everyone expected him to run away? “Yes, Herr Mozart. I have your music.”

Mozart slides off the windowsill, places his violin gently on a stack of paper on a side table. “Yes. Well…?”

Straight to business, then. He seats himself at the fortepiano, turns the first leaf open to the fantasia, shakes out his wrists as Mozart pulls up a chair beside him. The cuff of his jacket’s fallen down a little, and he reaches over to tug it back up-

A slender hand intercepts his own, and he jumps as Mozart pulls the cuff back, revealing a nearly-faded bruise. “What’s this?”

He yanks the cuff back, glances at Mozart. “Nothing. A bruise I got traveling here.” There’s silence for a second, and then the composer coughs a little, breaking eye contact.

“Well, do try to take good care of your hands. Now, just play what you have.”

Ludwig relaxes the slightest bit, turns his attention back to the music. A shallow breath, and then a deeper one, as he rolls his wrists, wincing a little at the pain.

_I’ve done my best._

The [Fantasia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wu5ivRKjpls) goes well - one or two mistakes in places he’s never made mistakes before, but as he’s playing, he feels the power of the passionate chords, the flurried anxiety of accompaniment, the melodies sing out to his satisfaction. Beside him, Mozart has leaned in.

Somewhere in the middle, it strikes him how much better this feels than the audition. Ludwig’s always hated being made to show off - of course, not that he _minds_ showing off his skill, it’s the _being made to_ part that gets to him. This is a choice, and he’s determined to show Mozart that he understands this, understands his music - better than anyone Ludwig’s ever met.

When the grim final chord dies away in the room, he lets out a faint breath and closes his eyes for a second, collecting his energy for the Sonata.

“Well! That was-“ Mozart begins, just as he starts to reach to turn the page. Ludwig pauses, hand outstretched.

The composer leans back sharply. “More? Ah, carry on, please.”

He turns the page, takes a moment to roll his shoulders again and breathe, but his mind is racing. Did Mozart expect him to only have the Fantasia prepared? There’s a little rustling of a dress behind him; Constanze has come to listen as well.

 _Focus on the music, and only on the music._ He begins the [first movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JPHj-PhnA9s), swept up in the music he’s beaten into his hands and absorbed into his heart.

The composer stays quiet as he finishes the movement with its fade into rippling silence, shifts a little as Ludwig starts the second movement. Ludwig keeps a count in his head for the sake of tempo, keeping the left hand heartbeat steady, but allows himself a little rubato in the right hand, letting the flowing melody float above it. It rejuvenates him for the third movement, letting its nervous but graceful energy diffuse through the keyboard, allowing the silences to speak for themselves.

When he finishes, Mozart leans back in his chair and looks at the keyboard pensively, even after Ludwig’s taken his hands away.

Eventually, he gives a little cough, and the composer snaps back into reality, looking back at him. His head is tilted to the side, and there’s a hint of a frown on his face.

“In two weeks.”

“Yes,” he answered. _For God’s sake, he handed it to me himself._

Mozart looks away, and the frown deepens a little. “Well. This…certainly changes things.”

“What do you mean?”

Mozart sighs. “I… I expect nothing but the best from my students.” He glances back to Ludwig. “But to learn this much, in a few days?”

He mutters something about working hard, mind racing. So he’d _deliberately_ set an impossible task.

“I’ll be honest with you," Mozart says, looking away. "I heard you as a favor to the Count, and because it wouldn’t hurt anyone, but I never had any intention of taking on another student.”

He leans back in his chair, looks Ludwig straight in the eyes again. “But, well, you surprised me - and challenged me!” he adds, smiling faintly. “Your improvisation… yes, I really didn’t want to take on another student, but I couldn’t just dismiss you after _that!_ ”

“So… the piece?” Ludwig asked, slowly.

“Was to see - well, one, if you could truly learn things quickly, you really hadn’t just memorized that improvisation beforehand - and two - well, to see when you’d give up. I wanted to see… I wanted to see how far you’d get with it - with that spirit. I didn't know if you had what it takes to back it up.” He smiled a little bit. “And I seem to have grossly underestimated you. How much did you practice each day?”

Ludwig shrugs. “Around nine hours?” he said in a flat voice, not sure where he stood.

Mozart just _stares_ at him, grey-blue eyes wide.

There’s an exhale of breath from the doorway. Ludwig looks around. Constanze is also staring at him.

She doesn’t stare at him for long, though, looking to Mozart instead. Ludwig follows her steely glare to Mozart, who seems stricken. “See,” she says quietly, “what your little test has _done.”_

Ludwig looks at Mozart for a response, but none is forthcoming - then, gingerly, the composer reaches for his wrist. He tenses a little, but Mozart doesn’t roll his sleeve up any further, he just turns his hand palm down and very gently massages the back of his wrist.

“Did it hurt? At any point?” he asks, eyes still directed downwards to his wrist, then laughs bitterly. “Or - I should say, when did it start hurting?”

Ludwig hasn’t realized the sheer amount of tension he’s been holding in his wrists and forearms - his entire arm sags down into the gentle pressure, and he can’t help the tiny sigh of relief that escapes him. He was going to deny _any_ discomfort, but Mozart glances up at him, still massaging his wrist and hand, and he can’t lie to that direct look.

“About a week ago. It’s not that bad,” he mutters, but the wince as Mozart’s thumb presses gently into his knuckles gives him away.

Constanze shakes her head. “And no wonder,” she says softly. Both of them look up at her - the little flash of steel that had been in her voice is gone, replaced by pure concern. “I apologize for my husband’s foolishness,” she says to Ludwig quietly. “I hope you won’t feel any - _permanent_ repercussions.”

As she leaves, Ludwig looks back to Mozart, who slowly rotates his wrist over and starts to massage the inside of his palm. Head down, staring at Ludwig’s hand, the composer starts to explain.

“I gave Johann Hummel - one of my other students - a rather similar task a while ago. To see how he’d do, and how well he was practicing when he was here. I didn’t know he’d go home and practice more - hours and hours. And I didn’t know he was practicing with tension in his hands I should have caught before.” He moves on to the the inside of his wrist and the very base of Ludwig’s palm, where the veins rise to the surface, traces along the delicate skin there with his thumb. “He couldn’t play for weeks - numbness in his wrists like old musicians with bad technique complain of. For a while we thought he’d _never_ recover. I put you at the risk of the same thing, just because I wanted to see…well, I’m sorry.”

Ludwig looks down because it’s easier, looks at Mozart’s thumb, now massaging the top of his palm, feels a slight shiver. Of their own will, his fingers curl over, ever so slightly downwards, just brushing the top of the other man’s hand.

“It’s…it’s normal for me. I’m used to practicing a lot.”

“Nine hours?” Mozart says. He breathes out sharply. “That’s more than my own father made me play, and he…”

Mozart cuts off, and Ludwig, fighting a growing feeling of nausea, glances up just in time to catch a little twist at the corner of Mozart’s mouth. Piercing blue-grey eyes meet his, and Mozart looks serious, for the first time he’s seen him. “That's _normal_ for you? Is someone _forcing_ you to practice for that long, regularly?”

Ludwig stares back. He’s distantly aware of the near tremor in his hands, his jaw solid and frozen shut.

The silence holds for a few seconds, then Mozart coughs, looks back down, resumes massaging his hand gently. Ludwig relaxes a little. “Well,” he says, and there’s a little quirk in his voice Ludwig hasn’t heard before. “My apologies - I won’t bring it up. And, well, perhaps we can start again.” He shifts to face him fully, clasps Ludwig’s hands in his own, looks him in the eye, and smiles a little awkwardly. “That is, if you still want to study with this foolish ass of a man. And if not, I’d be happy to send you to any teacher in Vienna - anyone I know, across Europe - with my full recommendation. My only condition - you'll have to practice much less.”

Ludwig can only stare for a second, at the warmth in Mozart’s voice and his hands, and his little awkward smile. It’s not a challenge at all; it’s a choice.

And he does take a moment to consider. Consider the tension in his hands melting away in Mozart’s, and Constanze’s concern, concern _on his behalf,_ and that smile, and how _different_ this is, and that little rising feeling of hope in his chest. He squeezes the hands holding his own - just a little - and smiles himself, genuinely, for the first time since he's gotten to Vienna.

“It would be an honor.”


End file.
